Bits and Pieces
by cjnwriter
Summary: A sporadic series of one-shots not long enough/without enough to them to justify being their own stories. Rated as such because my muse is very unpredictable. And temperamental.
1. Bedtime

**Disclaimer: Still not mine. *Sighs wistfully***

**A/N: Warning for shameless fluff. If allergic, stay away!**

* * *

"Mycroft!" the small dark-haired and pajama-clad boy hissed urgently from the doorway of his elder brother's bedroom.

Ten-year-old Mycroft Holmes sighed and turned away from his desk, where he had been working out a particularly puzzling math problem. "What is it now, Sherlock?" he asked tolerantly, but with a hint of exasperation.

Sherlock opened his mouth, glanced at Mycroft, then down at his bare feet, then back at his brother.

Seeing his brother's hesitation, Mycroft gestured to Sherlock to come in.

Sherlock walked quietly up to Mycroft's chair, stopping about two feet away, and peered into the grey eyes that mirrored his own as he said, "I don't want to sleep in my room tonight."

"Whyever not?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock gulped. "It's very dark, and lonely, and I swear I can almost see things moving about in the shadows. His eyes widened fearfully.

"Sherlock, that's just your overactive imagination playing tricks on you. There's nothing to be afraid o—"

"I'm not afraid!" Sherlock quickly cut off his brother, almost as though he feared that if the words were spoken aloud, he wouldn't be able to disprove them.

"Of course you're not," he said. "But if you want me to come with you to check the closets and corners..." He waved a hand as if to say "et cetera".

Sherlock shook his head. "I just want to stay in here for a little while, that's all."

Mycroft nodded, and returned to his math problem. For almost a full minute, the room was silent except for the scratching made by Mycroft's pencil as he tried to solve the problem.

Sherlock was the one who broke the silence. "Mycroft," he said suddenly, causing his brother to jump.

"What is is Sherlock?" he asked a little testily. He had almost figured out what he was doing wrong, but had forgotten it again when his brother had spoken.

"Can you tell me a story?" He looked pleadingly up at his brother.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, and decided to give up on the math problem. Anything that took that much effort, wasn't worth doing at this late at night. "Sure," he said and pushed back his chair. They moved to Mycroft's bed, where Sherlock immediately snuggled down next to his brother.

"What do you want the story to be about?" asked Mycroft.

Sherlock's eyes had drooped shut, but he opened them again and screwed up his thin face in concentration. After a moment's pause, his face lit up and he exclaimed (too loudly), "Pirates!"

Mycroft shushed his little brother, but couldn't help smiling; he could have guessed as much. Just what fascinated Sherlock about pirates, he had no idea—and probably never would—but whatever the reason, they were the topic of every bedtime story he asked for.

Sherlock looked expectantly up at his brother, squirming in anticipation of the story.

"Well," Mycroft began. "There once was a pirate ship that marauded and plundered the seven seas. All the world was afraid of them, because their captain was the most feared and respected pirate of all time: Captain Sherlock."

Sherlock beamed, then yawned.

"One day, as Captain Sherlock and his men were sailing across the ocean, they saw a small ship on the horizon and turned toward it. What they didn't know, was that this particular ship was..."

Before Mycroft had even gotten through half of the story, Sherlock had fallen asleep. Mycroft carried him back to his own bedroom, before turning in himself.

* * *

**A/N: *Hugs Mycroft***


	2. Fan Mail

**A/N: It's all in the title of this one.**

"Good heavens! What's all this?!" asked Watson as he entered the sitting room after returning from a short holiday he had gone on with a couple of friends.

"Hmm?" said Holmes absently. "Oh, that. It's the post, Watson."

"There's so much of it!" exclaimed Watson, swiftly joining Holmes by their armchairs, where there were a few stacks of letters, as well as a pile of unopened and unsorted letters.

"Yes, your romanticized tale under the title of... what was it? Oh, I remember. 'The Adventure of the Empty House', was it not?"

Watson ignored the insult to his writing. "Yes, that was the name."

"It seems to have been a success, Watson."

"So... this is all mail from people who read it?" asked Watson, staring almost uncomprehendingly at all of the letters.

"I would assume so."

"And the piles are..."

"Possible clients." Holmes pointed to a pile of six or seven letters on the floor to the right of his chair. "People wanting me to teach them about my methods," he pointed to four letters balanced precariously on the left arm of his chair. "People who want to learn about 'Baritsu'—which you misspelled, by the way. It's 'Bartitsu'." he pointed at about ten letters on the opposite chair arm. He then pointed at two piles in front of Watson's chair, one considerably larger than the other. "These are letters from your _adoring_ fans, Watson," he drawled almost mockingly, but his grin showed his friend that he didn't mean any harm by the statement. "That pile is addressed to me," he pointed to the larger pile, which appeared to have between twelve and fifteen letters in it. "That one is addressed to you." Watson's pile probably only had four or five letters.

"Yes, well it's probably far more interesting to write to the 'dead' detective than his biographer," said Watson. "Do you want me to help you go through the rest of the post?"

"Certainly, if you want to," he said.

They set to work, opening and skimming letters, then putting them into various piles. They had been doing this for about two minutes, when Holmes happened to glance over at his friend. Watson was standing as still as a statue with his mouth hanging slightly open and his face a deep shade of red as he read the contents of the letter.

"Watson?" Holmes said with a slightly amused air. Watson started and quickly looked up at his friend. "May I ask what that is?"

"Erm, sure Holmes," he said blushing more deeply than Holmes had thought possible. "It's a letter from a young woman." In answer to his friend's raised eyebrows, he hastily added, "It's addressed to _you_, Holmes, not me!" He handed the letter to the detective, and watched as he displayed a reaction similar to Watson's.

"Do you have a pile for _that_ kind of letter, Holmes?" asked Watson mischievously when Holmes had finished reading it.

"Yes, indeed I do," he replied earnestly, throwing the letter into the fire.

**A/N: Yep. I'm leaving the exact contents of the letter up to your overzealous imaginations. **

**Have fun!**


	3. Interview

**A/N: Takes place in late 1885.**

In a small room, in a large house, near the edge of London, a singular interview was taking place, the likes of which has never before been seen, and the effects of which has never been rivaled throughout all of history. In fact, it is highly unlikely that it will ever be rivaled.

But of course they had no notion of the significance of this meeting.

There were two men in the room, one obviously superior to the other, though he was sat at a desk while the other stood, and so had to look up at the other.

"And the police discovered this?" The seated man asked the question in an unemotional voice that had caused a good number of men—both before and after the man to whom he was speaking—to shiver at the sheer coldness of it.

"No, not—not exactly." The second man, though obviously nervous about being in the presence of the man at the desk, was a young man with dark hair with an almost aristocratic English accent, which still retained a slight Irish undertone from his youth. His posture and clothing were that of a wealthy gentleman or a respectable nobleman.

"What do you mean, Peters?" The first man leaned forward in his seat, his brow furrowing as he steepled his fingers on the desk before him.

"They had help, Professor." He swallowed nervously. "A sort of amateur of crime, so to speak."

"Oh?" The Professor raised his eyebrows superciliously and leaned forward in a fluid, almost serpent-like manner. "And what is this gentleman's name?"

"I don't know," said Peters, and continued quickly, hoping to escape the wrath of his employer. "But there seem to be two men: a remarkably thin man, and a shorter man with a mustache. The second man carried a doctor's bag." After a pause he added by way of explanation, "I caught sight of them as they left Scotland Yard this morning."

"I see," said the Professor thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair and picking up a pen and paper, apparently returning to the work which was interrupted by Peters' entrance. "Send your best men out to discover what they can about these two men."

**A/N: My muse seems to have gone over to the dark side. Possibly more Moriarty on the way.**


	4. Two Men

**A/N: Sequel to Interview.**

"You have news?" Professor Moriarty queried as Peters entered his study the second time that week.

"I have the information you wanted about the two men helped the police solve the murder of Jacob Carter," he said, immediately arresting the Professor's full attention as he stopped in front of the desk.

"Tell me everything you know." The emotion in the voice was unidentifiable, possibly because there was none there at all.

"Well, Professor," said Peters, his brow furrowing as he attempted to recall all that he was to report. "Their names are Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson."

"Describe them to me. Start with the second man."

"Dr. John Watson received his degree in medicine in 1879, and soon after served as an army doctor in Afghanistan, until he was shot in the shoulder and leg not long afterward. He then suffered from some illness—I could not find out what—and returned to England to recover. He came to London, and soon took rooms with the Holmes fellow at 221b Baker Street, where they both still live.

"He does not seem particularly dangerous, other than that he is a very accurate marksman. He is of average intelligence—not brilliant, but not stupid either. He is known to be a very kind and patient man, and as honest as the come, almost to the point of being incapable of lying."

He said the last few words with an air of proud finality, apparently having finished his statement. He seemed to expect some reaction from Moriarty, but received none.

"And the other?" asked the Professor with his unnervingly emotionless voice.

"Sherlock Holmes is an odd sort of man; the type that stands out in a crowd," said Peters slowly, as he attempted to think of a way to express the inexpressible.

"I would appreciate it if you would be more specific," said the Professor testily. "My time is of importance, and I am sure that yours is as well. In what way is this man so... different?"

"He is far taller, thinner, stronger and more eccentric than almost any other man of his age, but his main peculiarity is his intelligence, which seems to riv—well, he is a genius."

If Moriarty could tell what Peters had originally intended to say, his expression did not betray it.

"He is an outstanding analytical reasoner," Peters continued, "though his education is varied and his knowledge in some areas is extreme, and in others nonexistent. He has a detailed knowledge of everything related to crime, and has been successful in helping Scotland Yard with several cases. He is the younger brother of Mycroft Holmes—" at this, Moriarty raised his eyebrows leaned forward even farther in his seat "—the government official. Even without the help of a powerful brother, Sherlock Holmes is still obviously the more dangerous of the two men, though his companion should not be dealt with lightly either. Dr. Watson seems to be quite willing to risk life and limb for his associate."

"This is all the information you have for me?" asked the Professor.

"Well, I have a photograph of each of them," Peters replied uncertainly, pulling said photographs out of a pocket in his coat and handing them to the Professor, who took them and immediately began to study them.

Peters shifted awkwardly on his feet. "Do you have any new orders for myself and my men?"

"Continue to watch these two, especially Holmes," Moriarty replied, not looking up from the photographs. "If they become to much of an annoyance, they will have to be eliminated." He continued in a lower voice, more to himself than to Peters. "This Sherlock Holmes fellow intrigues me; he may prove to be more interesting than I had first though. I wonder if I could use him to my advantage..." he trailed off into a thoughtful silence.

"It will be done, sir," Peters said, answering the last statement directed to him.

Moriarty made no sign that he had heard. Peters glanced uncertainly at the Professor, at the door, at his feet, at the window over his left shoulder, and finally back at the Professor. He waited several more seconds, but Moriarty seemed to have forgotten he was still there. Peters departed from the Professor's study as quietly as he could, leaving the Napoleon of Crime to his musings.


	5. Tears

**_"I will not say, do not weep, for not all tears are an evil." -J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King_**

* * *

**A/N: Post-EMPT, Holmes's POV.**

* * *

I wasn't sure what had awakened me. Maybe something I'd eaten for supper upset my stomach. Maybe there had been a noise in the street. Maybe Watson had fallen out of bed.

Watson. I smiled. It had only been two weeks since my return to "life", and my Boswell had already moved back into Baker Street with me.

Just like the old days...

My pleasant reminiscing was interrupted by a noise from the sitting room. Was it crying? No, Mrs. Hudson didn't sound like that, and Watson would be in bed.

Wouldn't he?

A knot of worry formed in my stomach as I pulled on my dressing gown and entered the sitting room. It was dark, but with my above-average vision, I could make Watson's shaking figure curled on the settee.

_Shaking_? Oh, Lord. Watson needed someone now, and I had to be that someone. I was the worst possible comforter in the world, but Watson had done so much for me in years gone by that I definitely owed it to him.

When I came closer to him, I realized that he wasn't even awake. He was crying— and _whimpering_?—in a way that was very unlike my staunch biographer. The knot in my stomach tightened and I could feel a lump forming in my throat.

I shook his shoulder gently and whispered his name in as close to my normal strident voice as I could around that confounded lump in my throat. "Watson!"

"Mary," he muttered in a slurred voice, flinching away from my hand. "Oh, _Mary_." What on earth was I going to say to him when he woke up?

I shook his shoulder harder and added in a louder and more whisper, "_Watson!_"

He awakened with a start. "Mary..." I closed my eyes and offered a rare prayer for guidance from the Lord I had made a habit of ignoring.

"No, Watson," I said as gently as I could, sitting down next to him as he propped himself up on one arm. "It's Holmes."

"Holmes." His voice was still a little slurred, but I could hear the dawning comprehension in his tone.

That was when he put his face in his hands and began to sob again.

I will never know—or I want to know—exactly what was going through his tender mind and heart at that moment, but whatever it was seemed to have found my friend's seemingly nonexistent limits. I had to use all of my formidable willpower to keep my composure; it was terrible to see my steadfast friend so... broken. _If only I had gotten the telegram Mycroft had sent after Mary's death_! I thought angrily. At least I could have _been_ there for my best—indeed, my only—friend when he needed me most.

I put my arm awkwardly around his shaking shoulders, and tried to think of something soothing I could say that wouldn't sound like an empty platitude.

"Shhh, Watson, it's all right. I'm here, you're okay. It's going to be fine..."

Eventually his quiet sobbing slowed to a stop, and my friend looked up at me. Even though I couldn't see his face in the gloom, I knew my biographer was blushing.

"I'm sorry, Holmes," he croaked; his throat was dry from the violent grief. "I probably woke you up...I'm acting very childishly." He hung his head and tried to shrug off my arm, but I didn't move it.

I would have been surprised at his apology if I hadn't spent so many years around his completely selfless personality. "My dear Watson, I have gone without sleep for far more trivial reasons, and there is absolutely _nothing_ childish about grieving when you lose someone close to you."

He was silent for a moment, but when he spoke, I could hear the smile in his voice. "Thank you, Holmes."

* * *

**A/N: I hope that wasn't too depressing. *Hugs Watson***

**I was just feeling a little down when I wrote this, and I think it was affected by The Deal by PGF.**


	6. Young

**A/N: Very short. Apologies for the melancholia.**

Holmes and Watson were staring out of the window of Watson's rooms in Queen Anne Street at two young men walking down the street and laughing uproariously at some private joke.

"Were we ever that young, Holmes?" asked Watson wistfully after they passed.

"Yes, Watson we were," he replied. "Young, and reckless."

"And invincible," added Watson.

"And invincible," Holmes agreed.

They stood for a moment in companionable silence, each lost in memories of days gone by. Watson sighed and shook his head. "Not so anymore, my dear fellow. We're getting old." In an attempt to lighten the look on his friend's face, he added, "And in your case, old and crotchety."

Holmes smiled a little sadly. "And you'll be reminiscing about solving cases with 'the famous Sherlock Holmes, back in the good old days'."

"There are worse things to reminisce about," said Watson quietly, more to himself than his friend.

"Indeed." They lapsed again into thoughtful silence.

**A/N: My muse seems to have been rather depressive of late.**


	7. To War

**A/N: Just the voices in my head talking/arguing. Set not long after LAST.**

"You don't have to do this, Watson."

"Yes I do, Holmes. I have to do my duty to my country."

"You already _have_, and you've already suffered because of it!"

"I know, but the lads going off to war are all so _young_, and they're going to need an experienced doctor out there with them."

"There are men half, or even a third your age that can do that! Please, just stay here. I've only just gotten back."

"I've made up my mind."

"I know you have."

**A/N: My muse has been all but inactive lately, and this is all I've been able to get from it. :-/**


	8. Valentine's Day

**A/N: This is not slash. I do not write slash. Please do not read it as slash.**

* * *

I shoved my hands deeper into my pockets and bowed my heat to protect my face from the heavy onslaught of rain which seemed intent on skinning the London populace alive this evening. Unfortunately, all of the cabs seemed to have left me — and a couple of other poor souls on the street — to our own devices.

In a way, I was glad for the gloomy weather: not only did the crime rate go up (I am by no means malicious, but my occupation demands crime), the rain kept the young lovers and their disgustingly sappy gestures of affection _indoors _(and out of my sight) this St. Valentine's day.

Love. Pah.

I had decided long ago that I would not give in to such foolishness. I glanced to my left, and saw that behind a window, a young man and his wife laughing happily together. My sense of loneliness, which was not being helped by the rain, increased tenfold.

There were times that I wondered about my choice, and possibly even regretted my decision to remain a bachelor. But I had logically explained my reasons to myself enough times now that I knew my every argument by heart. It was hardly worth having another mental argument over it. Falling in love, as it is so called, would not be beneficial to me, or to any poor girl mad enough to do so, and marriage was completely out of the question.

I was alone, both literally (I was the only one on the street now) and figuratively.

Glancing up at the barely-visible street, and saw that I had only one more street to cross before I would be in the 200 block of Baker Street.

I tried to cheer myself up, but it did no good. Watson is the only person I know who has ever been able to pull me out of a black mood.

I sighed, my faithful and kind-hearted friend had deserted me for a wife not a month previously, and I had found (much to my shock and dismay) that I had not been able to fill the place where he had been.

Ah! I could finally see the door of 221b ahead of me. Putting on a burst of speed, I fairly ran to the door and had put my hand on the doorknob, when it was yanked open from the other side by Mrs. Hudson. I lost my balance and fell on the doormat.

"Mr. Holmes!" she shrieked, jumping back from my dripping form as I dragged myself up from my prostrate position.

"'M all right," I reassured her. "I—"

"You'll catch a cold, and without the Doctor here to force you to take your medication, you'll probably get something even worse, and be a _terrible_ tenant for weeks!" Good. Those supposedly helpful medications were utterly nauseating. My landlady took various articles of drenched outerwear, and shooed — yes, _shooed_ — me into the sitting room with instructions to "get out of those wet clothes before you make yourself sick!"

After following her instructions, wrapping an afghan around my shoulders, seating myself in my chair by the fire, and lighting one of my more comforting pipes, I returned to my musings.

Over the last six years, my Boswell's presence had become as constant as the rising and setting of the sun. (Or was it the earth that moved? Watson had tried to explain it to me, but I had forgotten all of it a long time ago.) He was always there, and always would be, or so I had thought before that business of the Agra treasure. As much as I loath confessing anything of on a remotely emotional nature, even to myself, I find that I cannot deny that I _miss_ my Watson.

I bear no grudges against Miss — _Mrs._ Watson; she is a better match for my friend than a good many women I have encountered (not that I am an expert in such matters; the fair sex has always been and will always be more Watson's department than mine), and she never fails to make him happy.

I find that though I have tried, I cannot envy or hate her for that. Actually, on more than one occasion in the months between his engagement and his marriage, I was grateful that he had someone to cheer him up. I am certainly no good at such things.

Though I have missed Watson's constant reassuring presence in several dangerous situations already, and will miss it countless times in the future, I found that I couldn't feel bitter about his marriage. I am glad that he has a chance to prove his worth as a husband, and as a father.

My thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson with a bowl of hot soup (God bless the woman! She seemed to always know what I needed most, at least in the way of food.), which I downed post-haste, before scooping up my violin and beginning to improvise. I noticed that the chords that came from the instrument were all melancholy, but in such a beautiful and bittersweet way that they exactly reflected the thoughts (and emotions) that had occupied my mind all of that day, and every St. Valentine's day for countless years now.

I would never have a romantic relationship with a woman, but I would always have people who cared about me, and I about them; and my primary concern regarding these people should not be using them to make myself happy, but allowing them to be happy themselves.

* * *

**A/N: Apologies if this sounded a bit choppy. I did all of my editing and splicing in one go, since I had put off revising this with the intention of "getting it done before Valentine's Day"**

**Additional apologies if I ruined anyone's good mood. I'm sorry!**

**And a happy Valentine's Day to lovebirds and loners alike!**


	9. Mustache

**A/N: To be perfectly honest, I have no idea if this has been done before. Apologies if it has.**

**Also, I don't think I've put a disclaimer in this series yet.**

**DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything here that doesn't belong to me.**

* * *

"I'm gonna grow a mustache when I grow up," said six-year-old John Watson to the sitting room at large, which happened to be only his older brother.

Henry looked up from the book he was reading and snorted. "_You_? With a _mustache_?" He shook his head. "Somehow, I can't picture that."

John drew himself up to his full height, which admittedly was not very impressive, put his hands on his hips and said, "Just you wait! I'll have the best mustache in the whole world!"

Henry smiled and returned to his book. "I'm sure you will, John. Young ladies for _years_ to come will be awed by its... amazingness."

* * *

**A/N: Henry, how right you are. (Almost) shameless confession: I am one of those young ladies.**

**I can just hear all of you out there. "Hooray! CJN's muse has finally lightened up a bit!"**

**But maybe that's just the other voices in my head who have had to spend all day with said depressed muse day in and day out.**


	10. Something

**A/N: I wrote this little poem a while back. It's about that undefinable something that makes us love certain things. And if you're wondering what this could possibly have to do with Sherlock Holmes, I don't blame you. But when I wrote this, I was especially thinking of Watson.**

**Also, I am not a poet. You have been fairly warned.**

* * *

Something about it

Seems too right.

Dark though the world may be

This Something shines bright.

-o-o-o-

As kingdoms fall

And martyrs are slain,

As hopes and dreams are crushed

This Something does reign.

-o-o-o-

It's really not sad

But finds a peace

And a beauty in all of

The lowly and least.

-o-o-o-

We cannot define it,

Yet here it stands:

In friend and book on shelf

It conquers shifting sands.

-o-o-o-

Though time devours

And good things cease,

The Something marches on

In greatest and least.

-o-o-o-

Love conquers hate

And all evil relents,

Faith gives us strength,

And Something from Providence.

* * *

**A/N: Sooo... what do you think?**


	11. Guilt

**A/N: Discovered this in my Writing Drawer while searching for something else.**

**Holmes's thoughts right after Watson returns to consciousness in EMPT.**

As Watson's face lit up with surprise and delight, Holmes felt his heart sink into his old bookseller's boots. In a way, it would have been a relief is Watson had hit him. His total and unconditional forgiveness for every wrong Holmes had ever brought upon him was, in its own way, more guilt inducing than any angry response Watson could have given.

**A/N: Yeah...pretty short.**


	12. Dark

**A/N: This is very vague, since my muse left without bothering to tell me what was going on. *Shrugs***

It was dark.

And he was scared.

Not of the darkness, but of what lay behind it. The Unknown. He could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing.

He felt as though he was buried deep down, under a suffocating ocean of darkness.

Then out of the oppressive Nothingness, he heard a voice. So he did have ears then. That was a comforting thought. But where had he heard that voice before?

He couldn't quite remember, but he liked the voice. It meant safety. He didn't know how he knew this, but he was absolutely sure of it.

He strained his ears to try to make out the words being spoken, but they seemed to be coming from a long distance, and had become garbled on their arduous journey.

He tried to follow the voice, but he seemed to have been separated from his body. He couldn't move.

Soon it faded away, leaving him alone again. Strangely, he felt more lonely now than he did before he had remembered what it was like to have a friend.

A friend...

Yes, he had a friend. It was all coming back to him now. He had a friend who was always by his side, always guarding his back, always there when he needed him most. Perhaps his friend was the owner of the voice.

In that case the voice would come back, because his friend would never leave him alone in this terrible Darkness. His friend would come.

**A/N: I suppose this could be either Holmes or Watson. You can decide which you think it is in the review I am ****_sure_**** you were about to leave for me. :)**

**Also, I am currently working on a longer story, which is why I haven't been posting things as often—my muse has been hard at work on this new project. I'm not exactly sure when you can expect me to start getting it posted here…actually I don't even have an educated guess as to when that will be, so just hang on for now and you'll get more fic in the (hopefully) near future!**


	13. The Gambler

**A/N: Here, have some fic. *Plops on to mostly-unsuspecting reader***

**Okay, so I'm going to do something a little different today. I'm doing a songfic (I think that's the right word) with "The Gambler" by Kenny Rogers. My mom introduced that song to me yesterday, and I got to thinking about Holmes, and then this happened. *Shrugs* See what you think.**

**Third person, because I couldn't decide on a POV. Set who knows when. Probably post-Hiatus.**

**Disclaimer: No, I don't own the song. Shoot, I wasn't even ****_born_**** until decades after it was written.**

* * *

_On a warm summer's evenin' on a train bound for nowhere,  
I met up with the gambler; we were both too tired to sleep.  
So we took turns a starin' out the window at the darkness  
Till boredom overtook us, and he began to speak._

* * *

After a long and particularly rough case—the details of which will not be here recounted—Sherlock Holmes and his friend Dr. Watson found themselves on an overnight train back to London. It had been a long day, but they were both still too tense for sleep.

"Since neither of us are likely to sleep after the events of this afternoon, what do you say to a drink and a chat?" asked Holmes suddenly.

Watson turned away from the window and toward his friend. "Of course," he said, more brightly than he had all evening."What would you like to talk about?"

Holmes shrugged. "How about old cases?"

"Sounds good to me." Watson stifled a small yawn.

* * *

_He said, "Son, I've made my life out of readin' people's faces,  
And knowin' what their cards were by the way they held their eyes.  
So if you don't mind my sayin', I can see you're out of aces.  
For a taste of your whiskey I'll give you some advice."_

* * *

Holmes could see that his friend was tired, but the fear of earlier had yet to fade in his mind. In both of their minds, for that matter.

Watson stood up and rummaged around until he found a bottle of whiskey, and poured two shots. He handed one to his friend. "How about a case from before you met me."

* * *

_So I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow.  
Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.  
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.  
Said, "If you're gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right._

* * *

Holmes took the glass and downed it in one swallow. "All right." He pulled out his pipe, and Watson gave him a match.

As the detective lit his pipe, he said, "I'll tell you about my second case."

* * *

_You got to know when to hold 'em,_

* * *

"…And I knew I had the final clew in my grasp, and could prove McArthur was guilty, but I also knew that it wouldn't do any good unless we could track down his cousin, who had stolen the painting in the first place. For that reason, I was forced to hold my tongue wait for the bumbling police force to find the missing man. It took an entire_ week_."

Watson snorted. "I bet you enjoyed that."

"Almost as much as the emerald necklace robbery back in '79."

"Emerald necklace robbery?" Watson frowned. "I don't recall you telling me about that case."

"No, I doubt I would have." Watson eyed at him hopefully, and Holmes sighed. "_Yes_, I shall tell you about it, Watson."

* * *

_Know when to fold 'em,_

* * *

"…As it turns out, Lestrade's simpler theory turned out to be correct, and I was forced to admit that he was in the right, and that I had erred."

Watson cringed in sympathy. "They probably didn't let you live that down for quite some time."

"I still don't think they have."

Watson laughed. "Speaking of never letting you live something down, that reminds me of that case back in '85, concerning Colonel Rutherford's butler, remember?"

"I doubt I'll ever forget it," said Holmes in a half-feigned bitter voice.

* * *

_Know when to walk away, and know when to run._

* * *

"In retrospect, we were rather stupid, weren't we?" said Watson thoughtfully.

Holmes snorted. "In _any_ spect we were rather stupid. What were we thinking?"

"You said that the dog would be chained up," Watson pointed out. "And that we would have a clear path to where the stolen documents were. And you said that we would be in and out in five minutes at most."

"And instead _Gregson_, of all people, found us up a tree in the back garden five_ hours_ later. But if we hadn't sprinted across the lawn and climbed that tree, that dog—if it was a dog; I suspect it was at least half rhinoceros, and perhaps half land-dwelling barracuda as well, but whatever it was, it would have run us down and torn our throats out."

"I never will forget Gregson's face," said Watson chuckling. "And the case was solved, so I suppose you could still call it a success."

"Watson, five hours cowering in a tree like some strange bird while a monstrous hound waits below, wanting nothing better than to sink its teeth into one's flesh is _not_ a success."

"Some people say that you look like some sort of bird, Holmes," Watson teased.

"Only because you have to use 'aquiline' every time you describe my face. And my nose is _not_ as large as the general populace would think from reading your drivel. Speaking of your lurid description, I wonder how Lestrade feels about being called a ferret in every one of your stories, hmm?" He cocked an eyebrow, and Watson laughed outright.

"I've never actually asked him," he said. "And I don't think I shall. But he does look quite a bit like a ferret though."

"I would agree with that. And your stories have given him more fame than any of the others at the Yard, so I don't think he can complain."

"So neither can you," said Watson, waving finger at him. "You should really stop your twitting me about my stories, Holmes. They've gotten you more money than any of those infernal monographs of yours."

* * *

_You never count your money when you're sittin' at the table.  
There'll be time enough for countin' when the dealin's done._

* * *

"Believe it or not," said Holmes, "I actually thought I would make a bit of money when I wrote that first monograph, on footprints, I'm almost certain it was."

"But you didn't," said Watson.

"As it turns out, the ignorant populace could not care less about the insights that can be gained about a person's height, weight, and other characteristics simply by examining a couple of footprints!"

"No, most people really don't care," said Watson, shaking his head and trying not to smile at his friend's indignation. "But you will note that I at least _tried_ to read it. And the one you never finished, about the ancient Cornish language. But you have to admit, they were rather dry reading."

"Compared to what, one of those horrid dime novels you're always coming home with?"

"Even if those novels can be a little more unrealistic and romantic for my tastes, yes, they still make more enjoyable reading than one of your monographs."

Holmes gave his friend a sidelong glance and his expression became something akin to a pout. "Really, Watson," he said. "But why anyone would rather read one of those dime novels than one of my monographs is beyond me."

Watson shook his head. "Holmes, you have no taste in literature. Unless it has to do with Shakespeare," he added as an afterthought.

"Excuse me?" The detective turned on his friend, eyebrows raised.

"You're not deaf."

"I'm just not used to you being so belligerent in conversation."

"Must be something to do with the lack of sleep. It's already after one."

"Hmm. So it is. Would you like to turn in, or would you like me to tell you about another case?"

"I would prefer to hear about another case," said Watson, "if it's all the same to you."

* * *

_Now Ev'ry gambler knows that the secret to survivin'  
Is knowin' what to throw away and knowing what to keep.  
'Cause ev'ry hand's a winner and ev'ry hand's a loser,  
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep."_

* * *

"…So I ended up having to stay in the hospital for six days, all because I had mentioned the name of the culprit to Lestrade, and hadn't warned him about the man's brother."

"It wasn't entirely your fault," Watson reassured him. "If Lestrade had taken your advice and waited until—"

"But when has Lestrade ever taken my advice?"

Watson paused. "Well, when you basically order him to do something, he usually goes along with it, like in the case regarding the Norwood builder—you know, I should really write that one up sometime."

Holmes snorted. "You have the one-track mind of a writer, Watson. But now that you mention it, there was an instance where he completely followed my advice, and ended up not making a _complete_ mess of the affair, which was quite good for him. Would you like to hear about it? It might not be the most interesting of my cases, but…" He shrugged.

"All right," said Watson, hiding a wide yawn behind his hand. "I might fall asleep during your gripping narrative, so don't be too offended."

Holmes snorted, closed his eyes in his usual languid fashion, and began to recount his tale.

* * *

_So when he'd finished speakin', he turned back towards the window,  
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep._

* * *

"Are you tired enough to sleep now, Watson?" asked Holmes, about five minutes into his story.

His only answer was soft snoring.

The detective smiled, leaned back, and soon the motion of the train lulled him to sleep as well.

* * *

**A/N: No, I did not use the whole song, but I was running out of material, and besides—"the gambler" ****_dies_**** in the next line, so I had no idea what to do with that. **

**Also, I'm sorry for falling into the "disappearing scene trap", but I'm currently putting most of my efforts into my longer (and as of yet untitled) story.**

**Speaking of said story (alliteration abounds!), I'm ****_hoping_**** to have it done before the end of May (I write stories out of order, and then edit like a madwoman so I won't be posting anything until it's totally done), but I don't think that's likely. And since I won't have as much computer access without my school-borrowed laptop over the summer, if I don't have it done by May, you'll have a wait ahead of you. Barring completely unforeseen circumstances *knocks on wood*, I promise to have it up by sometime next fall at the latest.**

**Aaaanyway, I hope you enjoyed, despite the uneditedness and ridiculously long author's notes. *Sheepish grin***


	14. Chess

"I said 'we could play chess'", came Holmes's muffled voice from the recesses of the settee, causing me to jump as I entered the sitting room.

For a moment, I was confused. Then I realised that he was answering the question I had posed some twenty minutes earlier before leaving the flat out of sheer exasperation: "Isn't there _something_ you would be willing to do?" After running out of cases to solve, Holmes had fallen into yet another one of his black depressions, and had hardly moved from the couch in four days.

Since it took me a moment for my brain to process what Holmes was talking about, my friend continued.

"I would prefer chess to you constantly hounding me to do something like take a walk in the park and feed the ducks, or something equally ludicrous."

I hesitated a moment. As much as I detested playing chess with Holmes—not only did he always beat me, he felt the need to brag about it for hours afterward like an egotistical schoolboy having gotten the highest score on a test—I was seriously worried about his health; he had hardly done anything—including eat—in four days, so far as I knew.

"Watson, are you there?" asked Holmes, miraculously expending the effort it took to sit up and peer at me from over the back of the settee.

I refrained from groaning. "All right, we can play chess."

**A/N: *Applauds Watson* He is a saint and ought to be canonized. **

**And yes, I'm still working away at my Story (which has now earned a capital letter in my brain-attic), but this plot bunny demanded immediate attention.**


	15. Truly Necessary

**A/N: Thanks to Book girl fan for somewhat inspiring this little plot bunny.**

**Please note that I do not own any quoted/paraphrased lines from EMPT. **

* * *

"I moved my head to look at the cabinet behind me. When I turned again, Sherlock Holmes was standing smiling at me across my study table. I rose to my feet, stared at him for some seconds in utter amazement, and then it appears that I must have fainted for the first and the last time in my life. Certainly a gray mist swirled before my eyes, and when it cleared I found my collar-ends undone and the tingling after-taste of brandy upon my lips. Holmes was bending over my chair, his flask in his hand." -From "The Empty House"

* * *

"Holmes?" I asked disbelievingly.

He grinned at me with undisguised merriment. "It is indeed I, Watson." His expression changed to endearing concern. "Are you all right, my dear fellow? I fear that I—"

"Yes, I'm all right," I said, and gripped him by the arms. "Well, you're not a ghost anyhow."

"I assure you that I am very much alive," said Holmes dryly, though I noticed he was grinning broadly at me once more.

I returned the grin, but somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought began to register. If Holmes had been alive this entire time, then why in God's name hadn't be told me?!

Holmes must have noticed my change in expression, for his own changed to confusion and worry. "Watson?"

I am ashamed to confess that at this point, a blind rage suddenly took me, and I found myself springing to my feet, and attempting to land my best right hook on his jaw.

Holmes was far quicker and stronger than I, and easily fended me off, but I could tell I had shaken him.

Good.

"Watson!" Holmes exclaimed, undisguised shock and hurt in his voice. I ignored both his words and the tone.

I grabbed him by the shoulders and shook his thin frame. "You were alive this whole time? _Three years_?! Three years, without a word. No, you just let me think you were dead. While I was standing there at the Falls, shouting your name, you were probably having a nice laugh at my expense, weren't you? Do you have any idea what grief does to a man? Do you even care? You machine, you automaton, you selfish, uncaring, unkind, cruel, disgusting, dishonest, fiendish _[censored]_!"

"I can explain," cut in Holmes meekly, taking a step back.

"Oh can you now?" I sneered. "I'm sure you have a wonderful explanation. Too bad I don't get to hear it. Get out of my house. Now." I pointed in the direction of the doorway.

Holmes's jaw dropped. His brow creased. His grey eyes betrayed signs of deep hurt, and a smoldering anger as well. "Fine," he said, in an attempt at his usual calm voice. "Fine, if you do not wish to see me, I shall by no means intrude my presence upon you. Good day."

As he collected his old bookseller costume, my anger finally began to simmer down and a considerable amount of guilt was setting in. What had I just done?

Holmes lingered for a moment in the doorway, giving me one last pleading glance before starting down the hall.

I couldn't take it.

"Wait!" I called, chasing him down the passage.

Holmes turned back, a mixture of wariness and curiosity and hope written upon his unusually open features. "Watson?"

"I am so very, very sorry," I said. "That was uncalled for—I don't know what came over me."

Holmes smiled sadly and shook his head. "No, it was completely deserved, though I must confess that you gave me quite a shock, my dear fellow. I accept your apology, upon the condition that you accept mine. I am so very, very sorry about all of the pain I am sure I have caused you. I pray that someday you can forgive me."

I stared at him for a moment in shocked silence. Never before had I received such a handsome apology from my friend. "Of course I forgive you," I said.

An awkward silence overtook us.

"How about we return to my study, unless you prefer standing in the hall."

Holmes chuckled as we reentered my study. "Your sense of humor doesn't seem to have changed at least," he said, giving me one of his odd smiles.

We sat down.

"So, what about that explanation of yours?" I asked.

Holm—

* * *

"What are you writing, Watson?" came Holmes's voice from behind me, causing me to jump. Lately he had begun a habit of sneaking up on me while I was writing, just to see my startled reaction.

"Nothing," I said, attempting to move my work away, but he was too fast and had snatched up my manuscript in an instant.

His eyes flew over the last few pages. After perhaps thirty seconds, he said, "You can't publish this."

"Why not?" I asked guardedly, fearing a comment about my romantic style.

"Do you really want your public reading this? That tirade of yours wasn't exactly family friendly, Watson."

I frowned. "No, it really wasn't." I thought for a few seconds. "What do you propose I do about it. And I am going to write up this case, so don't bother suggesting that I don't do so."

He shrugged. "Make something up, like you do every other time you have a problem in one of your stories."

"I do not make things up," I protested.

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Really?"

I fumbled for words for a moment. "Well, only when it's truly necessary."

Holmes handed back my manuscript. "Believe me, it's truly necessary."

* * *

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed, as this particular bunny decided to poke me while I was attempting to catch up on my sleep. **

**Ah, well. I had fun writing it. :)**


	16. Temporary Homes

**A/N: Another attempt at a songfic. Warning for character death, and several allusions to character death.**

**If you can find the time, please leave me a review and let me know what you honestly think. Please?**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the song "Temporary Home" by Carrie Underwood. Not even as an mp3 file.**

**Special thanks to a very good friend for giving me the courage to post this. Kudos to you, Cole!**

* * *

_This is my temporary home._

* * *

"It's boring here," said six-year-old Sherlock Holmes to his elder brother, Mycroft, one day as they sat outside reading.

"Some would call it peaceful," said Mycroft said, turning a page in his book.

"But _nothing_ ever happens," Sherlock complained. "When I grow up, I'm going to live in London. Lots of things happen there."

"Like people being robbed and killed in dark alleys," said the elder brother. "_That_ sounds like a lot of fun."

"I never said being robbed and killed was fun!" Sherlock objected, completely missing his brother's sarcasm.

Mycroft snorted, causing Sherlock further irritation.

"I won't live here forever. I _will_ go to London someday, you'll see! And I'll do all kinds of things there, things you wouldn't believe!"

"Be sure to send me a postcard," said Mycroft dryly.

This being the final straw, Sherlock stalked off to read his book on the other side of the house.

* * *

_It's not where I belong._

* * *

On the night before his twelfth birthday, Sherlock Holmes stared out of "his" bedroom window into the moonlight. He didn't consider the bedroom to really belong to him; he had only been living at his aunt and uncle's house in Bordeaux for a day and a half, which was hardly enough time to have any real ownership of a place.

He supposed that he probably never would call this place home; his real Home—it was worthy of a Name, in his mind—had burned to the ground on Christmas Eve, taking his parents with it.* He belonged _there_, not here, but he could never go back.

The boy stared up at the waning moon, and sighed. His entire life had turned upside down, and his birthday had been lost in the shuffle. Not that he much minded; it wasn't like he enjoyed celebrating his birthday….

Sherlock scowled; being as bright as he was, he couldn't lie to himself. He _was_ disappointed that no one had remembered, not that he had expected them too.

He jumped as there was a soft knock on the door.

"Come in," he called, not moving from his position before the window.

The door opened, and his younger sister Jane entered. She glanced at him, and gave him one of her reassuring smiles—one of the things she had inherited from their mother.

"It's a lovely night, isn't it?" she said thoughtfully as she joined him before the window, gazing at the clear, starry night sky.

"I suppose it is," he replied guardedly.

Silence fell.

"I'm sorry I couldn't really get you anything," Jane said suddenly, turning to her brother. "I didn't a chance."

"It's okay," Sherlock replied, waving her off, though he was secretly pleased that at least _someone_ had remembered.

It apparently had shown on his face more than he realised, because Jane said, "You know, the others haven't forgotten either, but there was really no time to think about it."

"I know," said Sherlock, sighing. "I—I just…" he trailed off, and shook his head.

"I suppose this beautiful night counts for something, though," his sister said thoughtfully, turning to the boy. "And did you see the sunset earlier? It was…" she paused as she fumbled for words.

"Stunning?" suggested Sherlock.

"You saw it?"

"Yes."

"Stunning is a good word," said Jane, returning her gaze to the moon. "Funny, to think how it's the same moon everywhere. Maybe God made it like that so no matter where you go, there's a little piece of home waiting for you, if you only know where to look."

Sherlock stared at her, and all he could think was that if this were true, his sister was more like the moon to him than the moon was.

* * *

_Windows and rooms that I'm passin' through._

* * *

After nearly two long, torturous years living in the dreadful flat at Montague Street, Sherlock Holmes was finally moving out.

Unfortunately, it was at the expense of some of his privacy. He was going halves with someone.

Holmes wasn't sure whether to rejoice, or to sulk.

The former won out, after living with his fellow-lodger for a month, and realising that he could have a far worse flat mate than Dr. John H. Watson.

This fellow apparently didn't much mind Holmes's Bohemian social habits, his violin scraping (as long as these solos didn't last more than an hour or so), his depression, his knack for finding things out that others may or may not want him to know, his domination of over two thirds of the sitting room, the scimitar and maps in the umbrella stand, the cigars in the coal-scuttle, or the knife in the mantlepiece. Not much seemed to faze him.

Even so, Holmes had expected the arrangement to last six months, at the very most, and was surprised when neither of them had killed each other after six years.

He was even more surprised at how miserable Watson's desertion of him for a wife made him.

But even after this, he remained at 221b Baker Street.

* * *

_This is just a stop, on the way to where I'm going._

* * *

Holmes had never intended to stay at 221b Baker Street as long as he had. After nearly twenty years (not including the three years during his so-called "death"), this place had become even more of a Home to him than the one of his childhood, much to his surprise when he realised the fact.

But now he was going away, to retire with his recently purchased bees in Sussex. He had made his decision to leave active practice, and move to the quiet countryside, but that didn't mean he didn't have his doubts.

Since Watson had bought rooms and a practice in Queen Anne Street, poor Mrs. Hudson would be left alone, as she had during the years of Holmes's Hiatus, but this time, Holmes and Watson had given her enough money to live out the remainder of her days, without having to worry about finding new lodgers. After all, she was getting rather old. (Not that Holmes or Watson would ever admit this to her. Age was always a very sore topic for women in general.)

Holmes glanced around at the sitting room, looking alien with all of his bags and valises full of his possessions. The last time the sitting room had looked like this, Holmes and Watson had been moving in.

Holmes was sure that he was a very different man now than he was when they moved in, and perhaps for the better.

* * *

_I'm not afraid because I know, this is my_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes knew he was dying. He didn't need that young doctor to tell him this fact.

He had know for quite some time now. After all, the brain can only last so long without the heart, and Watson had departed this life nearly a month earlier, ironically solving the greatest mystery before the detective whose praises he had sung throughout his entire adult life.

In respect of his dearest friend's memory, Holmes hadn't brooded, or been too miserable. He had held his head high, and attempted to go on living. The plodding march of time did not wait for grief, and he had known then that his age was finally catching up with him. He knew he didn't have much longer.

The doctor, who had informed him that he had two weeks, perhaps three remaining, now shifted his weight from one foot to the other, and Holmes nodded in response to whatever the fellow had just said. He had never trusted doctors, save his own Doctor, but he knew this one was right.

The doctor departed, and Holmes was left to himself.

Sherlock Holmes had done his best to cheat death throughout his adventurous life, but that was a game that all men always lose in the end, and he knew it. He had once feared death, but those days were gone as well.

After all, death was just the next step in his journey, and soon he would be able to once again see all of the people who had come and gone in his life: his parents, his sister, Lestrade and several other Inspectors, Mrs. Hudson, his brother, and finally his beloved Watson.

It was this last thought that prompted the detective to continue smiling until he drew his last breath.

* * *

_Temporary Home._

* * *

***Reference to December 16 of _A Sherlockian Christmas_**


	17. Interview with Holmes

**A/N: In an attempt to get my creative juices running, I interviewed Holmes. (If you recognize any book quotes/paraphrased book quotes, well, they're not mine.) **

**Please note that I really didn't edit this much at all. Ignore any errors.**

**Here's the transcript:**

* * *

**Me:** Good morning, Mr. Holmes. Thank you very much for agreeing to answer a few questions I have for you today.

**Holmes: **I would rather this didn't take all day; I certainly hope that by "few" you mean "few", and not "a few dozen".

**Me:** Don't worry. Okay, first question. Describe your occupation.

**Holmes: **That's a statement, not a question. And shouldn't you already know what I do?

**Me:** I realize that, and yes, but I want you to say it.

**Holmes:** I am the world's only private consulting detective. People come to me when they need a question answered, or a mystery solved. When other detectives are out of their depth, they come to me, and I set them straight.

**Me:** How long have you wanted to be a detective?

**Holmes:** Since I was very young. Six or seven, I think.

**Me: **Why did you decide you wanted to be a detective?

**Holmes:** **_[Pause]_** Well, I was always very curious as a boy, always wanting to find out how things worked, and figuring things out by looking at them and applying logic.

**Me:** When you first met Watson, what did you think of him?

**Holmes:** Well, he seemed to be a fairly average ex-army surgeon, recently returned to England from Afghanistan.

**Me:** And after a while?

**Holmes:** I learned that anything but average, and grew to…genuinely respect him, and somehow or other, that respect became a mutual affection.

**Me:** And now?

**Holmes:** **_[Pause]_** Well, he still manages to amaze me on occasion, even after knowing him for years.

**Me:** Which case that you have solved was the worst, or most painful to remember?

**Holmes:** **_[muttered] _**What kind of questions are these? **_[aloud]_** Hmm, I suppose the business regarding the giant rat of Sumatra.

**Me:** Would you care to give us a short account of what occurred?

**Holmes:** Watson was correct when he said that the world is not yet prepared for the events of this case.

**Me:** Were you?

**Holmes: **Most assuredly not.

**Me: **What is your favorite case?

**Holmes:** **_[pause]_** That is a difficult question. I can think of several that were quite instructive, several that were enjoyable in their solutions, and several that were hardly enjoyable at the time, but make rather entertaining after dinner conversation.

**Me:** Uh, I dunno. Let's just skip that one. **_[rustling of papers]_** Crap. I can't find my second page. **_[muttered]_** Great, this is embarrassing. **_[aloud]_** Well, I can't find my other page, and I wrote these questions a while ago, so I don't really remember what they were.

**Holmes:** **_[sarcastic] _**Organised, aren't you?

**Me:** You don't have room to talk. You lose case files all the time, and Watson has to find them for you.

**Holmes:** "All the time" is a bit of an exaggeration. But do you have any more questions, or do I have your courteous permission to return home?

**Me:** Well, I've got one more. Can you tell us what happened between Watson, Killer Evans, and yourself during that case involving the three Garridebs?

**Holmes:** I have little doubt that I have the ability to—

**Me**: Please don't correct my grammar. But I would appreciate it very much if you would…

**Holmes:** All right. I'm not much of a storyteller, but… **_[deep breath]_** Imagine that you and your closest friend are in complete control of a situation; the two of you are essentially on top of the world. You are practically ecstatic. Then suddenly, all of that is shattered with a single bullet. Your friend falls to the ground. You start praying, more devoutly than you ever have before. You implore God to spare your friend; you tell Him how much you need your friend, how much he means to you; you make rash promises of a lifelong devotion to Him. At the same time, your eyes follow your friend to the floor. His face is pale, and it contrasts starkly with the deep red of his blood. And there's so much blood. It hurts you to look at all of it, to see your friend in so much pain. You're sure this is it, that all hope is lost. You wish it was you. You wish a lot of things, but it doesn't change the fact. You drag your friend to a nearby chair, and try to brace yourself for the worst. You cut a hole in your friend's clothing, where the bullet went. Then everything changes. You see that the wound is quite superficial, a mere scratch, and your friend's reassurances attest to the fact. You feel an inestimable joy, such as you have never felt in your life. The fact that your friend is alive, and more importantly, going to remain that way sparks an indefinable emotion within you. Suddenly, you are fighting a strong urge to cry. But of course, you don't want to cry; that won't, well, that's hardly a very manly course of action. At the same time, you are thanking the merciful Lord in Heaven for all your soul is worth. The next moment, you look upon the man who fired the shot. A rage unlike any you have ever known fills every particle of your being, and you have to stop yourself from murdering the blackguard with your bare hands. He is the reason you came so close to losing the one thing in the world that you cannot— **_[voice breaks, continues more quickly]_** can't live without.

**_[Silence]_**

**Me:** …Wow. That was…well, um. **_[clears throat]_** Are you, uh, are you done now?

**Holmes:** Yes. I can't imagine why I agreed to start in the first place. It's not as if you could possibly understand what it was like.

**Me:** Actually, I do understand, at least a little bit.

**Holmes:** How could you? Nothing of that magnitude has ever happened in your placid little world.

**Me:** That's true. But I've read all sixty of the cases Dr. Watson published. In a way, I've done everything you've done, felt everything that you felt. That is the magic and mystery of being a reader. It's essentially living in someone else's life for a while. So in my own way, I've lived many thousands of lives.

**_[Silence]_**

**Holmes:** I don't pretend to understand exactly what you mean.

**Me:** That's okay. I didn't really expect you to.

**_[Shorter silence]_**

**Me:** Well, um, that's all I had left. Thank you very, very much for your time; I truly appreciate it.

**Holmes:** **_[Sound of chair being pushed back] _**Common courtesy might dictate a cordial "any time," but that is most certainly not true. I sincerely hope I can go for the rest of my life without being interrogated like some sort of criminal again, if it's all the same to you.

**Me:** **_[Quiet laughter]_** All right. It was nice talking to you. Tell Dr. Watson "hello" for me.

**Holmes: ****_[Door opens]_** I probably won't. **_[Door closes]_**

* * *

**A/N: This was actually very helpful and kind of fun. The next time I get stuck, I think I'll pick another character to interview. **


	18. Interview with Moriarty

**A/N: Because I do what I want, I tried to interview Moriarty. It didn't really work out as planned.**

**Here's the transcript:**

* * *

**Me:** Good afternoon, Mr. Moriarty. Thank you very much for agreeing to answer a few questions I have for you today.

**Moriarty:** I never agreed to this.

**Me:** Really? I thought you had. Wait, if you didn't agree to this, then why are you here?

**Moriarty:** I honestly have no idea. I can't remember anything after falling off that waterfall.

**Me:** Wait, you're dead. **_[Pause]_** This is awkward.

**Moriarty:** I was unaware that I was dead.

**Me:** Um…

**_[Pause]_**

**Moriarty:** I believe I shall take my leave now—I don't believe I know your name?

**Me:** Just forget about it.

**Moriarty:** I intend to do my best to do so.

**_[Sound of door opening and shutting]_**

**Me:** Well _that_ was bizarre.

* * *

**A/N: I feel like I'm pranking my fictional self. Is that weird?**

**FYI for anyone paying attention to this little series or to my writing in general, things will more than likely be rather quiet from my end for a while, as the laptop I've been doing most of my writing on will, unfortunately, have to be returned to my school for the summer, and I'll be keeping pretty busy anyway. I will still be writing short stories the fancy strikes me, and I'll be working on my longer story as well, but I won't be able to type things up as quickly or easily. **

**I will still be beta-reading Proof of Concept for SheWhoScrawls, so if you're following that, there shouldn't be any hold up from me there. (Shameless plug: it's a good story, you should go check it out!)**

**Another thing: I will probably not be reading as much fanfiction either, as my list of books to read has now passed thirty and I have three or four TV series I want to watch this summer, and unfortunately, I will be doing other things besides reading and watching Netflix this summer. So for you guys, that basically means that if I was following a story you're working on, I may not get back to it for a couple of months. Nothing personal, that's just how it'll be.**

**Now that I've bored you with an obscenely long author's note to explain my impending hiatus, either mourn my departure or just leave a friendly review. Whichever you prefer. ;)**


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